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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25454971">AMBULANCE!</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetvelour/pseuds/velvetvelour'>velvetvelour</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman (Comics), Batman: Under the Red Hood (2010), DC Comics, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bickering, Caretaking, Developing Friendship, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gender-neutral Reader, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Injury Recovery, Jason Todd Being Forced To Let Someone Care About Him, LMAO, M/M, Major Character Injury, Meet-Ugly lmao, Multi, Near Death, Night Terrors, OK. letgs go., Unconscious Self-Harm, adding tags i couldnt think of before, and you are the good samaritan who comes across him, i guess, implied PTSD, jason gets fucked the hell up, nurse reader, post-utrh but pre-batfam reintegration</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:33:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>18,438</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25454971</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetvelour/pseuds/velvetvelour</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A man with a bucket on his face fell into your dumpster.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jason Todd/Reader, Jason Todd/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>249</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. he's not dead, he only looks that way.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>since im on a roll with DC apparently i figured i might as well drop the first chapter of this as well.</p><p>jason! love that man. i have a lot of strong feelings about him, many of which are love. i'll try not to leave a whole essay in front of this one, cause the premise is pretty contained and self-explanatory.</p><p>this takes place at an unspecified time or possibly in an alternate universe tbh. i mean, the story will reveal more details abt this on its own, but i'm thinking this is a jason that hasn't integrated back into the family in the way that he has in recent canon. i would say he's at a very independent stage, but doesnt quite have a hostile relationship with the family and remains vaguely in touch even though he prefers to keep them at arm's length due to The Events Of His Life. like, at the height of his estrangement, but without being an outright target/villain to them or anything like that. i do envision him as still very much killing criminals at this point, and even though i tagged it as a fandom, it's an outlaw-less jason as well. basically this jason is just attuned to all my exact preferences about his character from various points in time, lol.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>A man with a bucket on his face fell into your dumpster.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, it’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>dumpster per say, but it’s on your building’s property, and as a couple-years-long tenant, you’re pretty sure you’re entitled to invoke your right to finders-keepers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not so much that you wanted him--no, he doesn’t seem to be very wanted in general, considering where and when and how he’s ended up. But you’ve spent a long, long time in Gotham. Usually, when you find a bruised and bloodied cadaver unceremoniously strewn among the garbage, it isn’t still breathing. So, for the sake of preserving miracles, you thought it the best course of action to lug his ridiculously heavy body up to your apartment, even though it took over an hour of hard labor, of which every second looked almost comically suspicious from a bystander’s perspective. But, this isn't exactly Gotham Heights. No one’s asking questions or calling cops around here--and no one’s helping you out, either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, there’s a man with a bucket on his face on your couch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, mostly on your couch. The bastard is big as hell, and even with his head resting up on one armrest, his feet have no choice but to hang off the other end. It’s a miracle you even got him up there, and you’ll consider it a gift from God that the elevator going up was empty.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You suppose you could’ve just called an ambulance and left it all to fate whether or not he gets any help, but, come on, you aren’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>evil.</span>
  </em>
  <span> You know damn well how much hospital bills in this city can be. At the very least, you’ll wait until he’s conscious and see if he’s even got insurance. In the meantime, though, you should probably take the remnants of that cracked and dented red bucket off of his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whoever he is, he’s lucky enough to be discovered by, like, the most qualified person on the block to deal with this specific situation, probably. A lesser, or perhaps more desperate Gothamite would’ve done little more than check him for a wallet and, if their exhausted heart could stand to beat for it, maybe put in a 911 call for him before going on their way. But no, not you! He didn’t even have a wallet on him in the first place! This bodily traumatized sleeping beauty will wake up to cleaned cuts, sewn wounds, and an immobilizing splint on the ankle you suspect to be fractured, all thanks to your many painstaking nights of nurse training, among other learning experiences. Assuming he does wake up, of course. If not, well, at least you’ve given the mortician a head start on the dressing process. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, you do hope he wakes up soon--especially after finding all these goodies in the 3000 pockets you discovered in his obviously military grade tactical uniform. In a moment of awe, you managed to build all of the guns, bombs, knives, miscellaneous sharp things, and unidentifiable gadgets into a pyramid on your coffee table. You look forward, at least, to asking him what the hell he was doing before you found him the way that he was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it would be dishonest to pretend he’s entirely a stranger. There’s plenty of masked something-or-others in this city, and while you certainly don’t make a habit of keeping up with the many heroes and villains and vigilantes in the world religiously, you do recognize this one. He’s a local celebrity, after all. That red face of his has dominated the local news for days on more than one occasion; usually, if you recall, for some sort of frightening criminal behavior that gets printed front page with a slogan about terrorism. Not that you’re scared of him right now, laying on your couch in his underwear, absolutely zonked out and bruised to a pitiful degree. (In your defense, you did your best to cut his clothes around the wounded areas so that he could keep some of his dignity when he woke up, but whatever the hell it’s made out of, a pair of scissors just doesn’t cut it--literally!) What </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>scary, though, is that even ignoring all the fresh wounds, you can see about a hundred signs of prior injuries littered across his skin, from incisions to bullet wounds to a disturbing large surface area with evidence of burning, as well a very dark, very unnerving Y shaped scar that stretches across his entire torso. Just what does this guy get up to? His face, battered as it might be, shows signs of being way too young and pretty to actually intimidate anyone--thick, low brows, sharp cheekbones, and, if they weren’t currently somewhat busted, you’d be certain you’ve seen his lips in a makeup advertisement before--so, well, no wonder he wears the helmet all the time. Hell, you’ve even got your Wonder Woman blankie on him, and that alone lowers the threatening factor by, like, 40%. ...Alright, maybe there’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>one </span>
  </em>
  <span>hero you follow religiously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Huh. Is he gonna try to kill you for having seen his face? Considering you are now in possession of his arsenal of dangerous toys, you’d invite him to try.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It occurs to you to try and tie him down somehow; safely, of course, so as not to aggravate his injuries. You’d hate for him to wake up while you’re asleep and sneak out before you can ask him what the hell happened (slash receive your well-deserved thank you). Or, like, kill you in your sleep, you guess, but the glock under your pillow and his confiscated weaponry leaves you considerably more prepared for the latter possibility. Either way, you don’t particularly want to come off like the stalker lady from Misery, so you suppose you’ll let him keep full control over the range of motion of all of his limbs. Well, as much control as his prior ass-kicking has afforded him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so the night ends, morning comes, and you don’t even have to shoot a wanted criminal before you get out of bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was already dark out when you found him, but strangely, it feels almost like a lived-in routine when you emerge from your bedroom, put on the coffee pot, check for a fever and a pulse, and then put a jazz record on and make yourself breakfast. Wow, did the moderate conscience boost of bringing in a half dead man from the street really put such a pep in your step? You can’t even recall the last time you touched that record player. Or maybe your need to be an impressive host compels you to make your home environment a little more inviting, regardless of the state of consciousness of your visitor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he stays out for more than two full days, you’ll probably just give in and call an ambulance, you mull over your scrambled eggs. It was lucky enough to find him on a Friday night so you’d be here to keep watch throughout the day; you don’t wanna push it and keep him here too long when you’ll eventually have to refocus on work and the man could end up properly dead without supervision. Even with your expertise, you can’t really figure out the full extent of his injuries. So long as you hold on to all his fancy clothes and toys, he shouldn’t have to worry about his super secret identity being found out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your eyes trail down to the mug of coffee you set before him as a gesture of hospitality more than anything, slowly losing its steam, along with the little cup of cream and handful of sugar cubes, cause hell, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>don’t know how he likes it. It’s a little hard not to sigh. Maybe if he was awake, he wouldn’t make such boring company.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You know, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>work really hard last night. Your <em>everything</em> is sore just from dragging him here, and you lost a lot of sleep cleaning him up and using your precious, questionably sourced medical resources on his ungratefully silent and expectedly toned body. Just think of the hit your circadian rhythm is gonna take after staying up so late! Isn’t he, like, a drug lord or something? A mercenary? Hell if you know, but either way, he should be more than rich enough to pay you some well deserved financial compensation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s impossible not to wonder what his name is as you sit there zoning out in his direction, and you’re a little curious about how he likes his eggs, too. You could tell by lamp-light, but in the morning sun, he really is handsome to a degree you wouldn’t have guessed with the helmet-thing on. And young, too--the guy can’t be any older than 25. How the hell did he end up as a...well, whatever he is? The news only ever calls him a terrorist or a crime lord, but you’ll probably wait to hear his own take on it. Anyway, he doesn’t seem to be in a talking mood, so it probably won’t hurt to do whatever the hell you want for a while and check up on him later. A good nurse knows when to take breaks too, right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only, your timing continues to be impeccable, because as soon as you step out of your shower just an hour or so later, damp and content and freshly changed into new pajamas, you catch the dead bastard up and at ‘em, struggling to hoist himself up to his feet. What can you do other than gasp as though this were the most severe betrayal you’ve ever experienced? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His face snaps towards you, contorted in the pain of exertion, but you still see a bit of surprise in the one eye of his that isn’t swollen half shut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who the hell are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ugh,” you groan. And rude on top of everything! But you’ll give him the benefit of the doubt--maybe he hasn’t yet put together that you’ve been his voluntary caretaker, what with the head trauma and all that, and he is sort of going through a “naked and afraid” thing right now. Desiring a quick fix that's likely to work on one of his types, you glance over and snatch a gun from the shelf beside you, pointing it at him passively. “Sit down before you hurt yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stops moving for a second (well, as much as he </span>
  <em>
    <span>can </span>
  </em>
  <span>with his limbs shaking horribly in exertion), still not quite standing up all the way, but quickly tilts his head and gives you an incredulous look. “That’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>gun.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Correct. Did you think I’d keep it on you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Could’ve kept </span>
  <em>
    <span>something </span>
  </em>
  <span>on me.” He huffs, like he’s annoyed, but defeatedly plops himself back down on the leather cushions, wincing again at the pain of impact. “How long have I been out?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have no clue, but I found you, like, twelve hours ago. How the fuck are you even awake right now? You’re barely even alive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a pause while he processes, and then he nods. “And now where are we?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In the building you passed out next to. I almost died dragging you up here, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I almost died getting killed to death.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, touche. You’re tempted to ask if he had it coming, but instead you just wave the gun at him again. “Lay down. In case you haven’t noticed, you are royally fucked up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And who are you, then?” he asks, ignoring your command. You shake the gun a little more aggressively. “If you dragged me all the way into your apartment and put a blanket on me, it’d be pretty counterproductive for you to turn around and shoot me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damnit, he sees right through you. Fine; you roll your eyes. “I’m no one. Literally. I just thought I’d be a good samaritan, you know? I’m a nurse. It’s kinda my duty to stop people from becoming corpses if I can help it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could've just called an ambulance,” he points out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You gesture the gun to your forehead and then outwards, as if to communicate the sentiment of “duh?” His face twitches a little, probably thinking you were one wrong move away from blowing your own head off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, wanted criminal? I’ve seen you on the news. If I called 911, they might’ve just come to really finish you off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He snorts, ponders that for a second, and then finally leans himself back horizontal, grunting a little as he pulls his legs back up onto the couch. Now, was that so hard?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then...thanks.” It seems pretty genuine. “A lot of people would’ve walked right by like they didn’t see anything. Hell, it'd probably be the smarter thing to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You smirk a little at the rightful acknowledgement, but frown again when about five seconds later, he shoots right back up urgently, grimacing once again in pain and grabbing his side. After he gets over it, his palm collides with his forehead and he shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Shit, wait, have you-- did you find a...fuck, a USB drive on me anywhere?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You furrow your brow, thinking for a moment, then just settle to leave the room and come back with the majority of his gear, which you tossed into the first duffel bag you found for safe keeping, dumping it on the table in front of him. He starts to lean forward to sort through it, but hisses in pain, so you wave his hands away and start looking for it yourself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just lay down, okay? I’m gonna be disappointed if you get any more blood on that couch.” Your search comes up empty. “It’s not here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” he curses profoundly. “It must be… Where did you find me, exactly?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In the dumpster. In the alleyway next to the building.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It must be there then.” He looks down and clicks his tongue. “Can I have my clothes back, please?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>you assert, but the “please” was a nice touch. “I haven’t washed them yet, and it took long enough to make sure all your injuries were clean after you’d been sleeping in a bed of garbage for who knows how long. Plus, you can’t even walk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then I’ll re-clean them myself,” he argues. “Listen, I need to go find--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If it’s that important, then </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll</span>
  </em>
  <span> go find it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks somewhere between suspicious and concerned. “...It’s a dumpster. It might be at the bottom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, please, this whole city’s a dumpster.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well...you aren’t wrong there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re right, I’m not. So lay the hell back down and don’t move. If I come back and you aren’t exactly where I left you, I’ll flush your whatever-it-is down the toilet. What’s on it that’s so important anyway?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They teach you to threaten your patients at nurse school?” he scoffs. “It’s, uh...supposed to help me track down someone. But I didn’t get a chance to look at what’s on it, on account of being killed to death.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Almost to death. Do you know who it is?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s quiet, in a this-isn’t-your-business-but-you-kinda-saved-my-life-so-I-don’t-wanna-be-rude sort of way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...It’s a metahuman. That’s all I really know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You raise an eyebrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like--you know, like a special person. Super powers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh-huh,” you acknowledge blankly. "I'm not gonna become an accessory to a murder if I find it for you, am I?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's not a hit contract," he groans.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Maybe. Either way, I’ll be back in two shakes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, you go back once more to the dumpster for the handsome criminal who barely fits on your couch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You look around the sides, underneath, and even brave a dip inside, holding your poor nose as you look through the rancid garbage bags, doing your best not to move them too much in case that’s what pushes the drive to the very bottom, but with as much of your effort as you can stand to give, you find absolutely nothing. Maybe you should’ve asked what it looked like, at least--but you’re pretty sure you can identify a USB.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing,” you announce unhappily as you close your apartment door behind you once again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dammit… Thanks for trying, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah...Don’t move an inch. I reek now, so I’m gonna take another shower.” You walk by him, then sharply turn around to give him a serious look, pointing your finger at him. “Really. Don’t try anything. You’ll only fuck your shit up worse, and I won’t be happy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not like I can move much,” he croaks, as if that stopped him from trying before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When you return, about 45 minutes of gratuitous soap and harsh scrubbing later, he’s being very rude and predictable by trying to stand up again. It gives you a mild flash of deja-vu.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Hey!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he snaps back, once again shaking like a leaf in a storm as he tries to will his broken body upwards. “The sooner I--</span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck--</span>
  </em>
  <span>can stand, the sooner I can get back to my job and leave you alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You look at him, absolutely incredulous. “You in debt or something, huh? Owe someone money? What’s the rush?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hisses through his teeth. “No, I’m just bleeding all over your couch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then bleed away! Jesus!” You step over to him, very carefully pushing him back down to at least sit, which is only slightly weird, given that he is still in his underwear. It must fucking hurt too, cause he's sweating all over. Maybe you really should have tied him down; you didn't know he was a <em>maniac.</em> “You’ll be able to stand faster if you stop goddamn </span>
  <em>
    <span>trying </span>
  </em>
  <span>to. Focus on resting. Now, are you starving?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It looks like the sensation only then occurred to him. “Uh...just a little bit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, then that’s our next challenge. And I’ll get you something to help a little with the pain. Believe it or not, it doesn't feel very nice to see someone writhing in agony under my care.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You dash out of the room and return a moment later to place an aspirin and a glass of water at the table before him. The table in front of the couch is covered in his fancy bullshit too, so you start to fit it all back in the duffle bag, when a thought occurs to you and you give him a pointed look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, I don’t even know your name.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s...Jason.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jason,” you echo. “Okay. A little more ‘frat boy’ than I imagined, but I’ll accept it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘Frat boy?’” He makes a face--or maybe that's just the swelling. “What did you ‘imagine?’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuckin’ Lex Luthor, I don’t know,” you laugh, and he actually joins in for a quick exhale or two until it hurts too much. “Don’t you fight with the Batman and stuff? Your image just seems a little bit ‘larger than life’ for you to have a frat boy name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As you speak, he swallows the pill. “Well, what’s yours, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You tell him, proudly. “Much sexier, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He snorts. “Yeah, the sexiest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now that we’re properly introduced, I’m gonna need you to shut up for a while, or we’ll both end up starving. You know, you’re pretty chatty for a guy who almost died less than 24 hours ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve had worse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure. But seriously, you need to rest.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He seems to think that’s a good idea, since he sighs and closes his eyes for a while, either resting or thinking, so you get up and try to shift gears to food. There’s no way he’ll heal in good time if he isn’t well fed, and lucky for him, you happen to be an exquisite chef. Your little kitchen is connected directly to the living area, so you have a full view of him back over your shoulder while you work, which is great, cause he can’t even try to do something stupid while you aren’t paying attention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, uh, I was just thinking, aren’t metas not allowed in Gotham?” you call over to him compulsively once you get started.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...I’m getting mixed signals over whether or not I should be resting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, right.” The hamster that runs on the wheel in your head reminds you that just because you have company for once, doesn’t mean you get to sentence him to death by way of your insuppressible urge to speak. “Keep doing that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t think it’s an actual rule as much as a...disincentive,” he answers anyway. “Not much of anyone follows rules in this city, anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I figured. Superman seems to drop by all the time, but I guess you’d have a pretty hard time keeping </span>
  <em>
    <span>him </span>
  </em>
  <span>from doing anything,” you muse. “So, what kind are you looking for? I mean, what powers do they have, or whatever?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hesitates. “You know, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m </span>
  </em>
  <span>the one getting paid for this job, not you. It’s kind of a confidential ordeal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, trust that you’ll leave here with a hospital bill in hand for my services. But still; if your information is gone, maybe I can help a little for the time being? I’ve lived here my whole life, you know. Maybe I’ve heard something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He seems to figure he might as well. “Something regenerative. A person who apparently can't be killed, and can pass that on to other people as well. You can imagine why people would pay millions to get their hands on someone like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh…” Your brow furrows, and you look over at him contemplatively for a moment. “Wait, you’re getting </span>
  <em>
    <span>millions? </span>
  </em>
  <span>And exactly how many of those millions are for me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For </span>
  <em>
    <span>you?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, because if I hadn’t found you, you’d be dead and would get no millions. I’m pretty sure that’s worth at least one of the millions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you think that’s a little steep for some stitches and a bloody couch to lay on?” he jokes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I’ll happily un-stitch you up, if you don’t find the 20 pounds of thread holding your Frankenstein body together to be useful to you. And feel free to move to the floor, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Stealing my clothes, insulting my name, and now blatant extortion? You sure you’ve got a license?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, shut it,” you say, blatantly contradicting your prior invocation to speak. “Don’t talk so much, it’ll slow your recovery.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And now I’m being silenced,” he sighs, presumably to himself. That earns him another look from you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wish it was working!” He’s distracting you from your onion chopping.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You can’t tell if he falls asleep or just retreats deeply into his thoughts, but he doesn’t say another word until you’ve finished, around an hour later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All done!” you announce proudly, hands on your hips, and turn to look at him again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’ve either woken him or regained his attention, and he raises an eyebrow. “So, I’m guessing it’s a little more than a PB&amp;J?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No pulverized man is eating a damn PB&amp;J under this roof if I can help it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, you might’ve gone a little bit overboard on this lunch and/or dinner, but what can you say? The hospitality impulse possessed you! And honestly, the look on his face when you bring him this bigass big bowl of chicken tortilla soup--dressed with cheese, diced onions, and a dollop of sour cream--along with a side of guacamole and tortilla chips and a tall glass of iced tea--the meal of a goddamn</span>
  <em>
    <span> king--</span>
  </em>
  <span>makes the whole ordeal worthwhile. It’s like looking at a kid in a candy store, if the kid got hit head on by a garbage truck five minutes before arrival. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh...wow.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Speechless! </span>
  </em>
  <span>His un-swollen eye is wide--the other one’s trying its best--and you can tell he really doesn’t know what to say. He glances up at you like he's waiting for you to get to the punchline.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s the least I could do after you took a nap in a dumpster,” you grin. “Do you need me to feed you? Because I will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the look on his face, he thinks you’re making fun of him. “...I’ll pass.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sure? I’m seriously offering. I bet it hurts to move your arms too much, and I really don’t mind at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now he looks downright suspicious. “...You look like you’re enjoying this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, yeah. I like to take care of people. I’m not a nurse for the </span>
  <em>
    <span>pay.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Regardless, Jason is content to fight himself up into a sitting position, grunting and wincing all the way, and you frown a little, but wait until he’s settled and carefully place the tray on his lap. He stares down at it for so long that you wonder if he even intends to eat it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, not a vegetarian, are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s just…” He picks up his spoon, coming back to reality, and clears his throat. “...It’s been a while.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You think you catch his drift, so you just give him a smile and leave to serve yourself as well. Now he’s gone and done it--you’re gonna end up cooking him three full meals a day, and that will wreak havoc on your grocery bill. Good thing you’re in for a million dollars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Never in your life have you seen someone scarf down a meal as quickly as Jason does once he gets started. By the time you’ve got your own food and sat down at the other side of the couch, he’s already halfway done and keeping pace like a man possessed. He must’ve been a hell of a lot hungrier than even </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>realized. It’s a little mesmerizing. You feel very gratified seeing him gorge himself on your food, and strangely, even as he eats so rapidly, not a drop of it is spilled, and his face remains clean. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Want some more? There’s plenty left.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hesitantly and almost sheepishly, he nods, and when you place your own food down to go and get his refill, he mutters a proper thank you. Funnily enough, it really is your pleasure. Something about this man--possibly the severe state of injury--appeals greatly to your nurturing instincts, but it’s probably for the best not to say that out loud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finishes his second serving in a similarly rapid fashion, by which time you’ve finally finished your own meal, and for a couple minutes, the two of you just sit in silence with your empty dishes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...You know, I won’t judge you if you ask your thirds,” you assure him. “At all. You seem really hungry, and you look like you’d need to eat a lot. Or, well, I didn’t plan for dessert, but I could whip up something like that, too. Oh, and don’t let me forget to find you something to wear until I get your clothes washed; I really don’t think any clothes I have here will fit you properly--cause you’re really fucking big--but there’s a thrift shop down the street, so I can probably run over and find some cheap clothes for the time being.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stares at you blankly, and it takes him a long time to find words. For a second you’re worried you’ve pissed him off somehow--maybe you’re going a little overboard with the whole caretaker thing? Babying him a little too much? But it’s not like he can do these things himself right now! He’d collapse!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Why are you doing all this? I mean, making sure I don’t die is one thing, but you...I feel like I’m at a bed and breakfast. Or being punk’d.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a funny way to thank me.” You grin. “...Well, because you were a half dead man all alone in the trash, and I thought that was a really terrible place for someone to end up, so I wanted to make sure you’re somewhere not-terrible until you get better. Do I really need a reason other than that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mentioned that you recognized me. From the news.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, yeah, I definitely recognized that busted piece of plastic caked to your head. You’re the Red Hood. But, I mean, I don’t know you. To be honest, I have no idea </span>
  <em>
    <span>what </span>
  </em>
  <span>you do, aside from, apparently, crime. All I know is that you needed help very severely, and you haven’t tried to kill me yet, so you can’t be </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>bad. And, maybe it’s just me, but we’ve been talking this whole day like we already know each other. It’s a little hard to fear for my life when you keep snarking at me from my couch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Alright,” he says, apparently stumped by some part of your monologue. “You might actually be crazy, but thank you… Really.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m</span>
  </em>
  <span> the crazy one, bucket-head-man?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I never said I wasn’t. And it’s not a bucket.” You aren’t too sure about that last part.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Washing the dishes and putting away the leftovers is a brief endeavor, and with this early lunch/dinner hybrid you decided on, there’s still a good chunk of daylight left, so you run into your room to change into something a little more presentable and prepare yourself to step out. The last thing you want is for him to think you’re keeping him practically naked on purpose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The thrift shop should still be open a few hours, so I’m just heading down the street to check it out. Wish me luck, cause whatever I find is all you’re getting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, wait,” he calls before you can open the door. “Can you, uh...bring me my helmet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You smirk. “Your what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The red helmet. What’s left of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It clicks, and his face falls into a weak glare. “Can you bring me my fucking bucket?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,</span>
  <em>
    <span> that, </span>
  </em>
  <span>of course!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You fetch it for him--what’s left of it--and, ignoring the disturbing blood dried onto its surface, he runs a finger around the inside, apparently searching for something. After a moment, he curses and starts prying at it with his fingernail, then a quiet click resounds and he tosses a thin wad of cash on the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Use that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You stare at it in puzzlement, then pick it up to look closer, and your eyes blow open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know if the goddamn thrift store takes hundred dollar bills, Jason.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s a few fifties in there, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You make a face. “I’m not gonna get arrested at the checkout for trying to use this, am I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course not. If I let you get arrested, who would berate me while I’m immobilized on this couch?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You point your finger at him. “I am being so incredibly nice to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I know, that’s why I’m giving you money.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As long as we’re on the same page,” you grin, and, sparing it one last look, slip the cash into your pocket. “Back in two shakes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, you can only hope for an uneventful trip down the street.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. it ain't the money, and it sure as hell ain't just for the fame</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>here's the second one...... i couldn't resist the little guest appearance bc i have a crush on him so you're welcome &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The thrift shop isn’t what you would call crowded at this time of the late afternoon, but when is any thrift shop ever crowded?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You swiftly make your way over to some of the larger mens’ sizes, reasoning that getting Jason something ill-fitting in an oversized manor would be much more comfortable and healthy for his healing injuries than something accidentally suctioned against his many bulging muscles. Plus, he might think that you’re trying to objectify him while in a state of distress if the fit is a little too sexy, and that would be, like, super uncool.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just when you’ve picked out a couple shirts and pairs of sweatpants for him (should you try to get him a pack of underwear, too? Man, you should’ve asked him what size underwear he wears. That’d probably go well.), the store’s bell chimes thrice in a row, and you look up from the rack to find three stooges with guns and, of all things, paper plates with eye holes cut into them strapped to their faces. They’re clearly pretty green, not quite grown adults, but still not young enough to excuse the sloppiness of their executions. Maybe if this wasn’t, like, the fifteenth time you’ve been in this sort of situation, you’d actually feel scared by their gruff demands and frantic gun-pointing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You wonder, briefly, if you should try to do something. It’s not like you’re some kind of professional or anything, but the old woman at the register seems a little frightened, and no one else in the store looks raring to get involved. The would-be robbers seem just inexperienced enough that, were you to hold up your phone and declare the police are on the way, they might just hightail it the hell back home to whatever sad hole they were trying to crawl themselves out of. That’s the problem with Gotham; the actual wealthy rarely ever get knocked down a peg--it’s always the street rats killing each other over crumbs. But, hell, maybe that’s just what’s wrong with the whole damn country at this point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily, and very surprisingly, it seems your streak of coincidental encounters intends to throw you another bone. Before you can even take your phone out, that door chime rings once more, and in waltzes a man in a very, very shiny black and blue bodysuit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nightwing, obviously. You’ve never seen him this close in person.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really, guys? Robbing a thrift store? What’s next, firebombing a retirement home?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite his casual demeanor and easy smile, all three of the gun-toting bozos freak out the moment they lay eyes on him, stumbling away from the register pathetically, and even knocking over some of the racks in their fear. In their defense, they probably weren’t betting they’d run into any masked crusaders while the sun’s still out. One of them falls back along with a rack and disorients himself in the clothing. Pretty much all any of them can say for themselves is some variation of Nightwing! That’s Nightwing! Holy fuck, it’s Nightwing! Stay back, Nightwing!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tallest of the three dares to actually, very shakily point his gun at him, which is, understandably, no concern of Nightwing’s at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“C’mon, buddy, you’re never gonna hit anything like that,” he steps closer, until the vibrating gun is onto a few inches away from his chest, and peers past it at the man’s sad excuse for a mask. “Shouldn’t you have tried to hit up a sporting goods or a party supply store first? The placement on your eye-holes is way off. It’s kinda embarrassing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And a moment later, it’s over. Almost faster than you can follow, he’s put the remaining two men on their asses, and all three of their guns are on the complete other side of the room. If you’re being honest, it was pretty attractive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Playfully, he crouches down next to the tallest one again. “You know, I could teach you some breathing exercises to get rid of those shaky appendages. It might help at least sell the illusion, next time you try to rob somebody with a replica gun.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, wow. You didn’t even notice that. Well, not that you’d have any reason to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In a tearful panic, the three failed criminals flee the store, and Nightwing seems content to just let them. It makes sense, considering they never truly posed a threat in the first place--and with a first attempt ending in an encounter like that, you wonder if they ever actually will.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Subconsciously, you’ve strayed a little closer to the action, so when the hero goes about helping restore order to the store and heaves up one of the fallen racks of clothing from the floor, he pops up right across from you and looks you right in the eye. It’s hard not to feel a little starstruck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” you say, mostly on impulse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” he responds, and it’s a little hard to tell with the mask, but you’re pretty sure he just winked at you. Wow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The store is fixed pretty quickly--you helped restore some fallen pieces of clothing to their proper locations--and soon, Nightwing is gone without a trace. If you didn’t have another shredded, face-concealing, black haired super-something-or-other waiting for you on your couch at home, you might be inclined to sigh wistfully at his absence. But, instead, you just buy your bigass clothes with your almost questionably large bills and leave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I, uh, ran into Nightwing,” you remark as you close your apartment door behind you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You don’t miss the way he frowns. “You know him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? Fuck no I don’t know him, he was just at the thrift shop.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The hell was he doing there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You look at him incredulously. “Uh, stopping a robbery. Because he’s Nightwing. Seemed a little early for him to be out, though. It kinda ruins the spooky, bat-ish vibes. Do </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>know him? Cause it sounds like you do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He seems to deliberate on his answer. “...He’s a dick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now you’re frowning. “Really? He’s kinda hot up close, and he seemed sweet. He even winked at me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head. “Nah, total douche. It’s all a facade.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s a bummer. Now, if he ever proposes to you for some reason, you’ll have to pretend you feel conflicted about saying yes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, as long as he keeps wearing that latex number, I really don’t care how much of a douche he happens to be,” you toss the bag of clothes at him, which lands on his stomach with a soft plop. “Here’re your clothes, Tarzan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t call me Tarzan if you’re the one who stole my clothes in the first place.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mean your dirty stinky garbage clothes that were in the way of all 5,000 of your flesh wounds?” As you mention them, you walk over to the pile they’ve been sitting in on the floor since his initial arrival. “Are these things machine washable, by the way?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pauses in the midst of opening the bag and blinks a couple times. “Sure. Probably.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Probably?” Your eyes blow open. “Don’t tell me you </span>
  <em>
    <span>hand-wash</span>
  </em>
  <span> them? How long does that take?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Long enough that I’ll let you toss them in the washer instead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, honestly, I’m taking that as a challenge more than anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head. “Seriously, the washer’s fine. Hell, if it’s beyond repair, you could even throw it all away. I’ve got spares of everything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You point at him, as per usual. “Listen. I’m going to hand-wash your fancy criminal clothes so well that you’re gonna be too ashamed to ever do it yourself again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re making this a lot more extreme than it needs to be,” he says, watching you crouch down and examine the damage. He really thinks you would throw this stuff away? Look at that nice, brown leather jacket! It’s only </span>
  <em>
    <span>slightly </span>
  </em>
  <span>punctured and blood-stained! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is there a problem with that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, I’m not gonna tell you what to do in your own house.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly. Now put your clothes on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He says something under his breath which you’re 90% sure included the word “bossy,” but you suppose you’ll spare his life just this once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Passively, he finally looks through your purchases, then gives you a weird look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you pick out...exclusively Wonder Woman merchandise?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Don’t you like Wonder Woman?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t tell me you don’t like Wonder Woman,” you argue, standing up straight again in pre-outrage. “Wait, you’re like, a bad guy! Have you </span>
  <em>
    <span>met </span>
  </em>
  <span>her?! Did she kick your ass?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Yeah, I like Wonder Woman.” There’s a little more behind that statement, but you suppose you’ll let him change in peace, and grill him about Wonder Woman maybe once you’ve known him for more than half a day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he changes, slowly and visibly in pain as he does so, you’re once again met with the full extent of his injuries--it’s a wonder you even had enough sutures lying around to close him up, and the bruising alone is disturbingly dark and pervasive on his skin. He’s lucky the only bone he broke was that seemingly non-displaced ankle fracture, but the amount of blood loss from puncture wounds and general tissue damage more than makes up for it. Whatever exactly happened to him, he’d been shot and stabbed (and someone up there must like him, ‘cause they all seemed to barely avoid being fatal) and beaten to a pulp by the time you came across him. It makes you sick to look at, especially as you watch him wince and grunt in pain, but out of fear for being just a little </span>
  <em>
    <span>too </span>
  </em>
  <span>overbearing, you restrain yourself from insisting you help. It’s his body, after all, and you felt bad enough taking the clothes off of him in the first place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Who the hell even attacked you?” you ask. “I meant to ask before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s the thing--I have no clue,” he grunts, followed with a long sigh of relief as he finally struggles his pants all the way up and lays back. “...It was a group of people, and I thought it might’ve been something unrelated to my current job--some ‘old friends’ I pissed off one way or another in the past--but I didn’t recognize any of them. Their attack took me completely by surprise, and that’s pretty hard to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did they say who they were?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, they obviously weren’t any new supervillains, cause they felt no self-obsessed compulsion to announce their evil aliases and reasons for trying to kill me. So, yeah, I have no clue. Wouldn’t be surprised if someone put out a hit on me, but if so, these were hired guns I’ve never even heard about.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, to summarize: I’m currently harboring a wanted criminal who might have an active, unconfirmed assassination target on him, in my apartment, where I sleep?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And that’s why I keep trying to get up,” he says. “It’s a possibility. But even still, something about it doesn’t feel right…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, alright, hold on.” This feels like it might take a while; you walk over right in front of him and sit yourself down on the ground, criss-cross. You’re nearly at the same eye level now. “Full story, from the top. What were you doing before you got almost-killed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You get a long stare. “...Listen, I appreciate all your help, but I think it’s for the best if you know as little about this as possible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ugh, come </span>
  <em>
    <span>on, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I’m not gonna post it on Facebook,” you groan, throwing your head back. “This is the most eventful thing that has happened in my life since, like, high school. And that was mostly eventful in a bad way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t a bad thing to you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dude. No offense, since you almost died and all, but I’m literally playing nurse with a handsome and mysterious criminal. This is basically a romance novel waiting to happen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Read better novels, first of all,” he says. You’re offended. “Secondly, I’m not kidding. If he finds out I let anyone else know about this job, it won’t be pretty. It’s as off-the-record as it gets. I already told you more than I should have.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who is ‘he’?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My employer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You just groan again. “Fine, keep your secrets,” you relent. “But I’m not making dessert.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Works for me,” he agrees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...What, you think my desserts aren’t good enough for you?” Even as you say it, you’re rising to your feet yet again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That...could not be further from what I said, and I’m pretty sure you know that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, that’s it.” You crack your knuckles, then your neck, and a wicked grin stretches across your face. “I’m making dessert.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He might not wanna tell you about his life and crimes, but he’ll sure as hell eat your chocolate cupcakes--and he’ll damn well like them, too!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your second proper day with Jason is pretty easy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Waking up bright and early (and finding him awake as well for God knows what reason,) you whip up a nice little breakfast for you both, then get to work on the real endeavor you’re eager to set out on this morning: torturing your in-house patient. And, unfortunately, making him strip. Again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This will probably hurt,” you warn as pleasantly as you can, holding a balled-up piece of paper towel ready. “And it’s gonna take a while. The first time I did this, you were out cold, and it still took a couple hours of careful work. I’m somewhat concerned about the fact that you were laying in garbage, and I can’t exactly give you a bath like this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I can take it,” he says, and it kinda sounds condescending. “But I’m perfectly capable of changing bloody bandages and cleaning wounds myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No the fuck you are not, you can barely move,” you remind him. “Do you even realize how much blood you lost? I half expected you to have finally croaked when I woke up this morning. You’re lucky I even let you dress yourself on your own. And also, you can’t reach your own back. Also-</span>
  <em>
    <span>also, </span>
  </em>
  <span>this is literally what I do. So let me do it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stares at you. What the hell else can he do? “...I mean, I’m not gonna stop you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Assuming you could,” you mutter, and get to work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At first, you set out to focus only on the most concerning wounds, taking your time to gently remove the bandage, dab the area clean again, dry it off, and wrap it up with something fresh, but the process is honestly pretty therapeutic--you end up going over everything again, and it doesn’t help that Jason is surprisingly still and silent as you do it, even as you work on his face. If not for all the blood, he’d look like he was getting a spa treatment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sit up, please,” you ask. “Carefully. I need to work on your back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He obliges without complaint, and it leaves enough room on the couch behind him for you to squeeze in and take a seat while you toil.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Man, you have no idea how much easier this is when you’re conscious,” you note happily. Just thinking about it gives you exhausting flashbacks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I can imagine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It took, like, a solid minute of effort just to turn you on your back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I still don’t see why you went to the trouble. Unless you intend to ask me the favor to end all favors by the time this is over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This again,” you groan. “You realize that people usually have, like, consciences, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes a thoughtful sound. “Never heard of it. Sure you didn’t just make that word up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up,” you laugh. “Seriously, if I hadn’t helped you, I would’ve felt horrible about it for like, ever. I’m a--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nurse, I got that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...You know what? I changed my mind. Get out of my house.” His skin shakes a little under your fingers. “Don’t laugh, you’ve got a bruised everything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All things considered, you’re done pretty quickly--according to your phone, it isn’t even noon by the time you’ve thrown out all the old bandages and washed your hands. Jason’s fully clothed again by the time you return, and frankly, you’re thankful for it. The physical attractiveness of a patient tends to fly above your radar when you’re deep in nurse mode, but you’d have to be blind as a bat to not take notice of that fact that he’s built like a goddamn hero of myth. Making sure he doesn’t have to just lounge around in his boxers all day was a task to preserve your sanity just as much as his dignity. That bright and borderline obnoxious Wonder Woman t-shirt is both a welcome and necessary Pandora’s Box that you have...well, probably more interest than you should in re-opening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You got a computer I can use?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You purse your lips. “...That depends.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“On?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What you need to use it for, obviously.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve lost my intel, possibly forever, and the guy I’m working for is not known for his forgiveness. I can’t just ask for another copy and a re-do, cause if he finds out I misplaced it in the first place, it’ll be over. There’s no second chance. I’ve got to at least try to get back on track, until I can move enough to retrace my steps and find the USB.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You hum, somewhat displeased. “...I mean, what’s the rush? I don’t know if it’s good for you to be worrying about </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>when you need to be healing. Can’t you at least give it a few days?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The job isn’t gonna wait until I’ve healed all my boo-boos.” Well, this entire conversation was worth it just to hear him say the word “boo-boos” in complete seriousness. “It’s not a one party search. I’m working against the clock </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>whatever other assholes were given the same assignment as me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You realize you just called yourself an asshole?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fully.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well...alright. As long as I’m not gonna have the FBI kicking down my door cause of whatever the hell you’re doing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you ever not gonna expect the worst from me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>cute, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but you haven’t given me much reason to expect better yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well. You’ve got me there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You sigh and retrieve your laptop from your room, wondering still if this is possibly something an insane person would do, and unlock it, checking one last time to make sure you left no potentially incriminating tabs open before you place it on his lap and give him full reign. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks. It won't take long.” As he says it, he reaches over to where the busted remains of his bucket-helmet still sit on the coffee table, grunting a little at the stretch, and apparently, there was yet another secret compartment in there, because he wrenches it open and pulls out...a USB, you think? Man, he really likes those things. Pointing at it, you give him a confused look. “Not the one I lost.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He plugs it into your laptop, and after a moment, a weird, complicated, kind of futuristic interface pops up and covers the entire screen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the hell is </span>
  <em>
    <span>that?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing you need to be worried about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You...aren’t too sure about that. He gives you a look that communicates a sentiment sort of like “I would prefer if you didn’t me watch over my shoulder,” which is kind of rich considering it’s your computer he’s using, but honestly, you might as well maintain as much plausible deniability as you possibly can and go focus on something else. So, you retreat to your room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s Sunday, and there isn’t much to do. Laundry is the only pressing chore you’ll need to get done before the weekend’s over, but you aren’t exactly dying to get it started. Taking your own clothes down to the corner and sitting around with a book until they’re clean and dry is usually something you consider a pleasant and peaceful use of your time, but this time, you have the additional concern of Jason’s clothes, which you may have dug yourself into a hole with by saying you’ll hand-wash them. It’s not that you aren’t up to the challenge, it’s just...how the hell do you get blood stains--among other things--out of whatever the hell material those things are made out of? You have a feeling you’ll be scrubbing until your arms fall off. Plus, you really doubt you’ve got any kind of thread strong enough to sew up the holes created by his having been punctured repeatedly, so he’s probably out of luck in that regard. But, whatever--you might as well get yours done first. He’s on recovery lockdown anyway, so his</span>
  <em>
    <span> battle gear </span>
  </em>
  <span>is secondary.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s still clicking and typing away when you come back into the main room with a basket full of your dirty clothes, but the topic has you examining his own vestments a little more closely than you bothered to on the first night. That’s right...you had another question you wanted to ask.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” you call absentmindedly, and he looks up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Is that a bat on your chest armor, or not?” you ask. “I mean, I have to assume it is, cause it’s shaped like one, but does that mean you’re friends with Batman, or did you like, steal it from him? I was pretty sure he’s not into the whole ‘guns’ thing, and, like, the whole ‘criminals’ thing, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>don’t know him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the look on his face, you’ve just asked the loaded question to end all loaded questions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I take it that means, ‘no comment’?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>know him...?” Not quite as exciting as Wonder Woman, but you still have to ask.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...More than most people do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. So like, you even know his, uh.” You gesture around your face with your free hand. “The secret, whatever? Who he is?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He snorts. “Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You raise your eyebrows. “Interesting…” But, you wave him off as well. “Don’t worry, I won’t ask or anything. I honestly don’t even want to know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This pauses his hands, and he gives you a more attentive look. “...You aren’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>curious </span>
  </em>
  <span>who he is?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, I’m curious, but it would kill the illusion, wouldn’t it? Like, if he turns out to be some lame asshole, then it just ruins the grandeur of it all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something you said brings him nearly over the edge of laughter, making him bow his head for a second. “Yeah, well, I’ll promise you now he’s the lamest asshole you could possibly imagine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not believing that,” you argue. “You already said Nightwing was an asshole, I’m not gonna believe </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>of them are. What about Robin?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which one?” He’s back to focusing on the screen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You pause. “...Uh, how many are there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hard to keep up, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You frown, and nod to yourself. “Now that you mention it, I always figured there had to be more than one Robin since they’re always pretty young and their heights seem to reset every few years, but what the hell happens to them when they outgrow it? And where does Batman find the new ones? Wait, are there multiple </span>
  <em>
    <span>Batmans,</span>
  </em>
  <span> too?” You don’t ask any of it expecting him to necessarily know the answers, but he gives you another look that almost makes you say “oh, shit, wow,” outloud--a look that seems to mean he really </span>
  <em>
    <span>does </span>
  </em>
  <span>know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Honestly, I think you’re better off not knowing the answers to any of those questions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your mouth hangs open, then snaps abruptly closed. “Okay, yeah, I absolutely believe that. Anyway, I’m going to the laundromat. Will you be fine for, like, an hour and a half?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He raises one hand in an “ok” gesture, not even taking his eyes off of the screen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Cool. Don’t get up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>God, you really hope he doesn’t get up.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>usually, the things that i write don't have, like, plot points, so this is a pretty interesting experience LOL. jason being dead and snippy on a couch can only produce so much content on its own. </p><p>speaking of which, jason is kind of an unbearable asshole (or at least that's how I like him &lt;3), but i've toned it down in this story because i really can't imagine him being too intentionally rude to someone who has appeared as such a purely positive figure his life, considering how few of those there have been for him. also they can take him out of this world just as easily as they ensured his continued existence within it &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. i'll remember this night when you're gone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>the last one was a little shorter, so this one's a little longer.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The laundromat is great and all--pretty close to empty, enough sunlight to read by the window and stay warm, and it hardly even smells like wet dog this time!--but the overall experience is a little tainted by the fact that you’re worried about leaving Jason alone for this long.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not like he’s gonna drop dead without you, obviously, (you’re pretty sure,) and he’s obviously a grown man, but still. Maybe you’ve let yourself get a bit obsessive about this task you’ve taken on of nursing him back to health, but for all you know, the fool is trying to get up and leave as you’re sitting here obliviously! It’s clear that he thinks he’s at least somewhat of a burden on you--and it certainly doesn’t help that you’re going so above and beyond the bare minimum for his sake--and he also seems pretty desperate to continue with this job of his, so, even if he seems to have accepted that you want to help him and he’ll have to rest for a while whether he likes it or not, you can’t suppress the anxious air you carry as you wait for you laundry to finish. The moment it’s done, you nearly throw some of it onto the floor trying to shove it all back into the basket as quickly as possible so you can make sure he hasn’t disappeared.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, it’s fully understandable why Jason looks at you like you’re insane when you burst urgently through your apartment door and slam it shut behind you. It’s alright. You’re having a bit of an insane weekend. The sight of him still laying there on the couch where you left him makes you exhale in relief, and you unceremoniously drop your basket near the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Were you chased by dogs, or did you just miss me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you have no idea,” you sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I...really don’t know which part of the question that was supposed to answer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You shush him, because only then do you notice that your computer is no longer on his lap, but instead on the table in front of the couch--only, as long as his arms may be, it looks to </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>like it’s placed further than he should be able to reach. You point at him in accusation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you get up? I told you not to get up!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” You give him a look. “Really, I didn’t even try.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t trust you,” you say, and turn your finger towards the laptop. “How did that get there? My computer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I got beat up, not paralyzed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You continue to eye him suspiciously, but even if he did get up for a second to put your computer down, you suppose it isn’t the </span>
  <em>
    <span>complete </span>
  </em>
  <span>end of the world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a huff, you press the back of your hand over his forehead and then click your tongue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re always so cold,” you complain. “Every time I check. Do you need another blankie or something? Some tea? Hot towel? I don’t like it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nope, I’m fine. Just, uh, anemic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, great,” you sigh, letting your head fall forward. “Cause </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>bodes well in relation to losing all your blood.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m alright,” he insists again, and it’s pretty clear he just wants you to drop the worried energy that you’re wielding against him. “Seriously. I’ve come back from worse than this on my </span>
  <em>
    <span>own. </span>
  </em>
  <span>If I feel like I’m about to die, I’ll let you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You give him a long stare, and he returns it with equal force. You’re at an impasse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fine. Alright. De-stress, officially. He’s fine, you’re fine--at least for the time being. You pick up your laundry basket again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to the other room to fold this,” you say. “But first, do you need anything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A new body would be great,” he says, and by the way he squints his eyes shut and furrows his brows, you can tell the pain is kinda beating his ass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aspirin,” you note. “Got it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once Jason’s settled, you retreat to your room and start folding, but you find yourself anxiously rushing through that chore as well. Why are you so reluctant to have him out of your sight that you’re willing to risk wrinkles in your freshly cleaned clothes? You’re about halfway done when you realize that you might’ve been misattributing the feeling, cause you don’t exactly have anything in mind that you’re worried will happen with you only a room away from him. Do you...actually just want to be near him? That can be arranged. It’s really not very often you actually have someone to talk to in your own home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the simple task of folding is done, you’re only left with the challenge you insisted on giving yourself. This will require some additional materials.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>About fifteen minutes later, you set yourself up haphazardly at a chair in your living room with a big plastic tub half filled with hot, soapy water, a pair of elbow length rubber gloves, and one of those big dish scrubber brushes with plastic bristles and a long handle. It’s pretty much the best you could come up with on such short notice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As you pick up his armored shirt and dump it into your concoction, letting it soak for a minute or so before your get to work, Jason just stares at you with an expression that you would primarily describe as grumpy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you’re not looking at </span>
  <em>
    <span>me </span>
  </em>
  <span>like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I told you not to go to the trouble.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a pleasant smile and intentional, direct eye contact, you start scrubbing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought you weren’t gonna tell me what to do in my own house?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just sort of grumbles. This is a pretty childish moment for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t go </span>
  <em>
    <span>crazy </span>
  </em>
  <span>over it,” you assure him, “I just want to get the blood and garbage residue out as well as I can and hang them up to dry. Is that alright with you, princess?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rolls his eyes. “You’re the one acting like fucking Cinderella.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, you suppose this building </span>
  <em>
    <span>does </span>
  </em>
  <span>have a mouse problem. “Does that make you the evil step-mom, or the ugly step-sister?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m about to be Prince fuckin’ Charming and chase you with a shoe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That makes you laugh aloud. “Would that you could, Your Majesty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He goes quiet, so you assume he’s given up on his crankiness and is gonna let you get to work, but then he starts wrenching himself up into a sitting position. You watch him suspiciously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Need something?” you offer. Like hell are you gonna sit there and watch if he tries to get </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>the way up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m gonna help,” he asserts, followed by a pained grunt as he settles himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“With what?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gestures at your work, and you make a face of disbelief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, you are not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bring it over here so I can help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You scoff amusedly, shaking your head at him as you put a lot of elbow grease into the bloodsoaked area around one of the puncture holes. “When did you get so bossy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve had a good teacher,” he says with a deadpan stare. You almost give in and flick some water at him, but it’s already growing murky and reddish so that would be kinda gross.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My final answer is</span>
  <em>
    <span> no,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> you declare. “I don’t want you reopening a wound or popping stitches from trying to scrub, and even if you don’t, I know it’ll still hurt. And I only have one of these brushy things. Sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you always this difficult, or do I just bring that out in you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could say literally the exact same thing back to you,” you say, pausing to point the brush at him. “We’ve kinda got an unstoppable force immovable object thing going on. You’re the immovable object, obviously. But also, I’m winning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re only winning because I’m stuck on this couch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t say it was a fair game, Jasey.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His face twists a little.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You frown. “What, not cute? I thought it was cute.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The ‘cuteness’ is the problem.” Oh, how typical.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, sorry, does it ruin your scary criminal image? I’ll try to think of something tougher-sounding.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What gave you the impression that you have nickname permission?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about ‘Jayjay’?” He just glares at you. “...Nah, that’s still too cute, huh? Maybe...J-Dawg?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He fights it, he really does, but you can see the way the corners of his lips succeed just slightly in turning upwards, and the validation that you got him to smile makes you snicker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That makes you sound like a rapper, though, and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>you’re not a rapper. I guess I’ll have to stick with Jasey.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By now, you’re satisfied with the level of cleanliness of his upper body armor, so you push it down towards the bottom of the bin and carefully squish his pants in as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me do the pants,” he insists again.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He says your name. Oh, dear, does that mean it’s serious? “I’m coming over there if you don’t give me those pants.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You laugh at him one single time as you search for a place to start on the second garment. “With what body? Cause </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>one is not going anywhere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wanna bet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pointed look you try to give him to seem stern and discouraging apparently isn't working, because he only returns it unwaveringly, and when too many seconds pass in silence, he tilts his head in a “well, what can you do?” kind of way and moves his arms like he’s about to try and stand up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, wait, wait,” you cry, and he hesitates. You click your tongue. “I still don’t want you scrubbing this stuff. The dirty water could get in your cuts. But...how about you do something else for me, instead? Then it’ll be even and you won’t have to get up or hurt yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He seems unconvinced. “...Do what, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pulling off your gloves and setting them over the side of the bin, you get up and return to your room. The laundry you folded earlier still rests in organized piles on your bed, and you sigh once in lament as you pick up most of it by the handfuls, shake it around, and stuff it back in the laundry basket. You mess it up even more for good measure, making sure nothing looks like it’s already been folded, and then return to the living room with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what kind of masked criminal insists on performing household labor, but here.” You set the basket next to him on the couch. “Fold my laundry, if you must.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought you already did that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I got distracted and didn’t finish it,” you say with a wave, sitting yourself back down, putting the gloves on, and once again getting to work. You might be nearly done already if he didn’t keep distracting you, but, well, you gotta face it--the distraction is exactly why you chose to set yourself up here in the first place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He peers into the basket curiously. “...You really want me to touch your underwear?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you fifteen?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, I’m just checking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s awfully bizarre and domestic to be sitting in your living room together, washing the blood out of his clothes while he folds yours over his lap with an unexpected and meticulous care, and you think he might notice it, too--that’s probably why the air goes so quiet for so long. If either of you point out how strange it is, then it might call into question how pleasant it feels as well. You really, really don’t want to break the atmosphere, but eventually, you finish scrubbing and hang his clothes above your bathtub to dry, and he finishes folding, the stacks of clothes even more neat and orderly than the ones you had made prior, and the sun begins to set, and you’re gonna have to make dinner now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks for the help,” you tell him as you carefully transfer his piles into the basket to transport back into your room. He watches your hands work, and grunts in acknowledgement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When you decide what to make for dinner (chicken and spinach pasta--you think you’ve got just enough penne on stock to make it work!), your brain turns on autopilot while you gather the ingredients and utensils that you need, and you start humming a tune cheerfully as you work until you go looking for a specific cutting board, only to find it not in its proper place. With a frown, you look around until you find it in the dish drain, remembering that you used it for breakfast this morning, but between freshening up Jason’s bandages, going to the laundromat, and scrubbing the hell out of his clothes, you can’t remember when you made the time to wash the--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You freeze. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, no the </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell </span>
  </em>
  <span>he did not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Turning around, the cutting board still in your unrelenting grip, you walk over the couch and hold it out towards Jason (who has taken to laying down and resting his eyes), glaring at him as loudly as you can. After a moment, he notices the attention and one eye pops open, then the other, and then his eyebrows fly up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh...did you want help with dinner?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need the opposite of help!” You shake the thin board at him, and it makes that wobbly plastic noise. “Are you kidding me, Jason?! How the hell did you even get over there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinks. “Over where?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do not play dumb with me. You can barely stand, Jason. I’m pretty certain your ankle is broken. Why would you drag yourself over there and put yourself through that pain to do something I could’ve done easily in 15 minutes?! I wouldn’t have let you even fold that laundry if I knew you’d done </span>
  <em>
    <span>that!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.” This is a challenge. He is challenging you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jason. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thank you. </span>
  </em>
  <span>But do not do that again. I am deadly serious right now. If you absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>need </span>
  </em>
  <span>to get up, just let me know and I’ll help you--but </span>
  <em>
    <span>please </span>
  </em>
  <span>do not hurt yourself like that for no reason again. That is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>conducive to your recovery.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs. “Baby steps.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was not a baby step!” You shake the board again for emphasis, but also the sound is just pleasant to make. “That was a very large, giant, grown-up step! Do you at least </span>
  <em>
    <span>understand </span>
  </em>
  <span>why I keep nagging you about this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I do. And you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>right.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Recovering from something like this isn’t going to happen overnight. But I don’t have a lot of time to work with right now, and I need to be on my feet again, like, yesterday.” He says it in such a genuinely understanding way that you almost feel a little bad about snapping at him. After all, </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>the one suffering the pain of his condition--you’re just trying not to let him make it any worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah, I know, your job, your money,” you sigh. “I get it. I do. But please; the next time you need to stand, at least promise me that you’ll ask so I can help you. I don’t want you falling over and hitting your head or ripping some wounds back open and bleeding yourself unconscious. Not until tomorrow, though--you’ve strained yourself more than enough for today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just stares.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You look at him expectantly. “Promise. Seriously. I’m not going back over there until you do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes a sort of displeased sound, and shrugs uncomfortably. “...Sure. Alright. I promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re like, 70% sure he’s lying, but he </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>promise, so you’ll leave it at that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, you really make me want to handcuff you to that couch,” you grumble defeatedly. When you took in a dead man off the street, you really thought that convincing him not to move around or hurt himself any more than he already is would be the </span>
  <em>
    <span>least </span>
  </em>
  <span>of your problems.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes flutter closed again. “That’s a little forward. Can we at least have dinner first?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You smack his head with the cutting board, and it makes the wobbly sound again. Man, that is really entertaining. Would it be patient abuse to hit him with it again? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are so annoying.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again, one eye pops open, and he looks a little amused. “Would you believe me if I said that isn't the first time I’ve ever heard that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That makes you laugh a little under your breath, and it’s even more annoying that you can’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>be </span>
  </em>
  <span>annoyed at him. A voice in your head claims that that fact in itself is foreboding, but you’ll choose to think about that at a later date.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, funnyman, </span>
  <em>
    <span>quiet.</span>
  </em>
  <span> No more peeps until dinner.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes that “ok” hand sign again and lets his eye fall back closed. “Aye, aye, Doc.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dinner is quiet. You eat together, of course, and this time, you try to turn the TV on for entertainment, but without cable, all that there really is to watch is a couple variations of the same depressing local news, and a public broadcast channel playing reruns of some old documentaries about Gotham’s history from the 90’s. None of it really interests you, but Jason seems to find at least some appeal in the documentary.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You have work tomorrow, which means that as soon as you’ve finished eating and quickly cleaned up your kitchen, you’re pretty eager to get to bed. As much as you’d like to stay up late with Jason and maybe question him about his career choices, you know that if you check in at the hospital on too few hours of sleep, you might just end up a patient there yourself--not to mention that Jason currently needs as much shut-eye as he can possibly get. As far as you’re concerned, it’s past his bedtime.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, you get him settled and say goodnight. All you can hope is that he’ll actually get to sleep, cause after the past couple days, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re </span>
  </em>
  <span>out like a light just about the second you hit the bed!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . .</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The exact time of night eludes you when an anguished scream rips through your apartment and wakes you up in a frenzy of shock, and you don’t have the time to check your phone as you fling yourself out of your bed, tripping over your own sheets and landing painfully on your elbow, then swiftly pretending that didn’t happen as you scramble to grab one of Jason’s guns and burst out of your bedroom door. You don’t know how much it’ll help if it happens to be Jason’s original attackers back to finish the job, but the least you could do is </span>
  <em>
    <span>try </span>
  </em>
  <span>to keep your incapacitated patient alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although you made quite a racket leaving your room, you hesitate for just a moment, listening to see if you can gauge the situation, but Jason’s scream has evolved into an ugly orchestra of choking, wheezing, and gasping, and you don’t have the heart to sit idly and listen to that for more than a couple seconds. However, when you burst readily into the living room, gun cocked and pointed steadily, there’s no one there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except Jason, grasping and clawing vigorously at his own throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The gun is thrown (probably dangerously) aside in an instant and you run to crouch beside him frantically, pulling on his wrists with all the strength you can manage, but dammit, that beef on his arms isn’t just for show. His face is contorted in pain and dread as he essentially chokes himself out, and it’s a deeply disturbing sight--it’s like he’s trying to cut off his own airflow while simultaneously desperate to breathe, all the while still clearly asleep. You can’t pull his arms away, so instead you lean over him, electing to shake him as hard as you possibly can instead, and you can only hope you aren’t hurting his busted body too badly or ripping open any stitches.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Jason! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jason, wake the hell up! Oh my God, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please,</span>
  </em>
  <span> wake up!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The moonlight catches the shiny tears that start to build up in his eyes, overflowing down side of his face, and you don’t know what to fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You don’t want to hit him when he’s already hurt, but he seems to be having the night terror to end all night terrors, so you’re guessing it’ll take a hell of a shock to wake him up from it. And, you need to move quickly--you aren’t sure how willing or capable he is of ripping his own throat out, but at this rate, you’re disinclined to give him the chance to try it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wait, you might have just the thing--you nearly trip a second time sprinting over to fetch your keyring, and fumble impatiently with it until you pick out a whistle. Crouching down next to him once more, you lean as close to his face as possible and, with a monumental inhale, blow into the thing as hard as you possibly can. As expected, it’s painfully loud. There’s a count of two before Jason suddenly shoots up, and his head collides with yours so hard that you fall backwards onto your ass, and your vision turns white and swirly for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” you whine, rubbing your poor forehead as the stars subside, and your toss your keys on the table, which, obviously, you also hit your back on when you fell backwards, because why wouldn’t you?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But you recover quickly, and though he’s awake, you aren’t sure Jason is in much better shape, by the way he breathes almost without control, eyes wild as he remembers where the hell he is, and he’s practically drenched in sweat. At least he’s laid off his neck--even in the dark you can see that he’s scratched himself hard enough to draw a little blood in some places, and you wouldn’t be surprised if he ends up with a ring of bruises there by the morning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you alright?” you question carefully as you climb back into your squatting position. “That was pretty bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He squints his eyes shut, bringing one hand up to pinch at the bridge of his nose, and his breathing remains heavy and shuddering. You’ll take that as a no. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s alright. You maneuver yourself to sit criss-cross, waiting in silence until he’s ready to speak, if he ever is. Eventually, he settles himself back down properly, breathing now in a way that seems very deliberate, like it’s some exercise, and he keeps his eyes closed--though his hands are balled into tense fists.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you need some water?” A few seconds pass, and then you think he shakes his head a little, almost imperceptibly. “I’ll get you some anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So you do, and return to your spot, now holding a glass of water for when he’s ready for it. Five, maybe ten minutes pass in near silence, but eventually he cracks his eyes open again and hazards a glance at you, but his expression communicates little, other than, well, physical pain and exhaustion. You open your mouth and inhale, but not a single word gets out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he mutters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your mouth snaps shut. Should you...be offended? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...What?” is all you let yourself respond with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re gonna ask if I wanna talk about it,” he croaks, and it really is a croak--he certainly did a number on his own vocal chords. “I don’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You pause, thinking. “...Actually, I was gonna ask if you want your water now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, listen to yourself,” you insist. “At least take a sip.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You hold it out to him, and he seems to give in, weakly pushing himself up a little and taking your offering, but instead of a sip, he ends up gulping down nearly the whole glass in one go. He lets you take it from him easily when he’s done, placing it behind you, and then falls flat again. Obviously, this whole ordeal has taken a lot out of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...So, I don’t know what the hell that was, and honestly, it isn’t important,” you begin. “What </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>important to me is that you tell me if you need anything or if I can help in any way at all, because </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>is definitely not conducive to the healing process, and I can’t have you accidentally killing yourself in your sleep in the middle of the night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s extremely obvious that he isn’t even remotely comfortable talking about this, but it isn’t exactly something you can ignore, especially so long as you’re technically responsible for his wellbeing. He doesn’t say anything for a long time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, shit, wait, did your pain meds wear off? I’ll get you some more.” And just like that you spring up and out of the room, hurrying back in with a pill, which you hold over his face, and he just kinda opens his mouth and lets you drop it in, swallowing it dry. You offer him what remains of his water, but he just glances at it uninterestedly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Thanks,” he mutters, and his voice cracks in a way that sounds almost painful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyelids fall, brow furrowed and lips pursed in pain, and you can’t help but frown. Obviously, he doesn’t want to even acknowledge what has transpired tonight, and he probably thinks that if he just lays there like that for long enough, you’ll return to your room and go back to sleep. You’re back to work tomorrow, so you really, really should. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it just...doesn’t sit right with you. It feels almost impossible that Jason could be able to fall back to sleep after that, and how can </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>sleep well knowing he’ll be sitting there alone all night, suffering the residual damage of whatever the hell he experienced that made him want to rip his throat open? Whatever freaked him out so much freaked the hell out of </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>by extension. Man, couldn’t you have found a less stressful dumpster corpse? You sigh loudly. What can you do?  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Think you can sit up?” you ask, and his eyes open again reluctantly. “If it hurts too much, don’t bother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To make room for me on my own couch?” you snort. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the reminder that he’s laying on borrowed property, he seems to resign to whatever it is you’re thinking, slowly hoisting himself to sit upwards on the couch and grunting quietly at the exertion of it. When he’s upright, he exhales deeply, and lets his head fall limp over the back of the couch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just a second,” you assure with a grin, running off for a second time and returning with your laptop. Very, very carefully you sit yourself beside him, plopping the device on your lap and opening it. “Alright, got a favorite movie?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s looking down his nose at the screen, eyes only barely open, and it’s hard to tell if he’s at all interested. Hell, even if he doesn’t watch, you’ll at least make sure he’s not alone with his thoughts. As you wait for the reply you may or may not receive, you scroll through the listings of your streaming sites, seeing if you find anything you’re interested in as well. You’re about to give up and just decide on something yourself, when he finally slurs out:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pride and Prejudice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That gives you pause, and your head snaps to him. “Wait, really?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just looks at you blankly, evidently having expended enough energy just thinking of something--he’s not in the mood to explain his choices.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like, 2005, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Keira Knightley</span>
  </em>
  <span> Pride and Prejudice? Holy shit.” You couldn’t possibly bring up the movie and press play any faster. “Jason, I forgive you for bleeding all over my couch and screaming bloody murder in the middle of the night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kinda grunts at you, but you don’t really know what it means, and you don’t ask, cause the movie’s starting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every time you glance at him, even as sleep threatens to pull you under and it becomes a struggle to keep your eyelids open, Jason is staring unwaveringly at the screen, tired, lidded, darkly circled eyes unable to obscure that subtle attentive glint.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . .</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When you wake up, your neck hurts like hell, and it doesn’t take very long for you to realize that you’re sitting fully upright. The side of your head hurts too, sore from whatever this hard thing you’re laying on is, and--oh, wait, that’d be Jason, huh? Hold on a second, what time is it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your eyes pop open in horror and you lift your head up like you’ve been electrocuted. It takes your eyes a moment to focus properly, but you soon find Jason just fucking looking at you with that slightly busted face of his, wide awake and fully unconcerned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, thank God, my arm has been asleep for hours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The computer sits dead in your lap, so you can’t even check the time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god, what time is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just looks at you, because how the hell should </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>know, and foolish as you are, your priorities quickly shift towards noticing that he looks a lot better than he did the night before--much more calm and devoid of all that unnerving terror and dread in his eyes and his expression. However, as you feared, you can see the way that the skin on his neck is bruised and scraped all too clearly in the morning light, and his voice is scratchy from more than just sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your alarm went off in your room a couple hours ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re plainly baffled. “So you ignored it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Seemed tired,” is all he can say for himself. Ugh, you can’t be mad at that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, shit,” you sigh, and set your computer aside to stretch like your life depends on it, careful not to bump into Jason as you do. “Maybe I should call in sick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“S’what I would do,” he comments.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’d miss me at work, huh? I understand.” You sigh. “But, I really should go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you say you’re sick, you won’t look irresponsible for sleeping in,” he reasons. “I’ll pay you whatever you’re missing for today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You give him a look. “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He narrows his eyes a little, like it’s obvious. “It’s my fault you slept in in the first place.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is strange. Either somehow, he really will miss you, or, probably more likely, he really does feel guilty about the previous night. Or maybe he just doesn’t wanna be alone all day after that ordeal. Or hell, it could be all three. Regardless, it couldn’t hurt to play it safe and stay here. You’d hate for him to do something stupid while you’re gone, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Alright, but, I mean, you already gave me a lot for the thrift store. Like, a lot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve got a hell of a lot more, so don’t worry about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, you don’t doubt that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yawning and stretching again, you lift yourself from the couch, frowning at your poor, stiff, achy-breaky spinal cord. It’ll take at least a day to un-crick your neck, and a mild throb in your forehead reminds you of Jason’s accidental headbutt last night. Rubbing your sleep-filled eyes, you return to your room and pick up your phone from the bedside table, finding that it’s about 9 in the morning, which means you’re supposed to have been scurrying down the halls of Gotham General for about an hour already. God, that day off is looking more and more tempting by the minute--and hell, with you this late to your shift, you’re sure they’ve already handed off your roster and assigned your morning rounds to someone else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But in your drowsiness, it takes you a few seconds to realize you’ve got an unread text as well. It’s from an unknown number. You squint at it.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[7:48] 4 in 3 days. Watch your back. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, you only stare at the screen.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Fucking hell.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>the first part of this entire story that I wrote was the introductory paragraphs, basically up until Jason wakes up. i went in mostly blind, and didn't have much of a prompt other than the "a man with a bucket on his face fell into your dumpster" line that I thought of, so it all basically sprang from that. </p><p>the second part of the story that i wrote was the night terror scene. this isnt really relevant to anything, i just think it's interesting the way that a story can form around and spring past two little fragments of a concept and a relationship dynamic like that.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. you talk to me, but would you kill me in my sleep?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*pretends it hasn't been half a year since the last update* hello, i'm still alive </p><p>you guys seem to like my dialogue in particular in this story... i certainly hope so, at least, cause that's basically all there is in this one!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Sorry, Jason, I changed my mind,” you sigh as you return to the main room, showered and changed into your scrubs. “I feel bad leaving my work for someone else, and God knows every hospital in Gotham needs all the help it can get.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s made himself horizontal again, much to your delight, and he only looks at you blankly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have fun,” he drones. “I’ll just be...laying here, I guess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You fucking better be,” you assert, giving him yet another sharp point of the finger. He better start taking that seriously if he knows what’s good for him. “Don’t think that just because I’m gone, I won’t know if you do dumb shit here for no reason. And, here--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You put your bottle of aspirin on the table. “I don’t want you suffering while I’m gone because I’m not here to bring you your medicine. And also--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In your other hand is a cord. You plug one end of it into a power strip on the floor, and lead the other end to your laptop, making sure it sits close enough to his arms that he can reach it on the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can use my computer again if you need to. Just don’t...I don’t know, look up anything gross. And, lastly--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You hustle over to the kitchen area, looking urgently through your fridge and pantry. Arms full, you shuffle over to him and lay out on the table: potato chips, a half-empty bag of whole wheat bread, a jar of jam, a jar of hazelnut spread, a plate, a butter knife, a jar of pickles, and a baggie of roast beef from the deli across the street. Gotta give him options, right? Then, you scurry back, fill up the largest water bottle you own, and place it next to everything else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t starve either. I’ll cook something proper when I get back. Alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just stares at you, looking a little amused. “Thanks, Mom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Funny man. “Want me to squish your cheek and kiss you goodbye, too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Absolutely not necessary.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fumbling a bit with your urgency, you pull on a jacket and your shoes and do a quick double-check of your bag to make sure you’ve got everything before grabbing your keys and opening the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See you when I get back. Please, for the love of God, do </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>get up unless the building is on fire.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . .</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s chilly on this Gotham mid-morning, and as much as you’d like to hurry and get yourself under a roof as soon as you can, there’s something else you have to do first. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the side of your building, just a couple yards away from that horrid dumpster that gave you your precious victim of near-assassination, there is a fire escape. It’s sort of old and rusty and definitely not anything that anyone in their right mind would even think about standing on without the specific threat of a fire as motivation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily, it’s on the other side of the building from where your windows are, so you don’t have to worry about alerting Jason.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Very carefully and very observantly, you make your way up the horrid thing, scanning every inch of metal as you pass by, and your journey is fruitless even as you ascend so high that you would prefer not to look down. With a groan, you lift yourself the rest of the way--onto the roof proper. And thus, your search continues. Disturbingly, you notice a dark, peeling splatter of something near the edge, and realize that it could very well be a mark left from Jason on the night before you met him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes nearly an hour--yes, an </span>
  <em>
    <span>hour </span>
  </em>
  <span>just to climb those rusty stairs and search this flat, empty rooftop, but eventually, you do find what you’re looking for. A small, silver gleam catches your eye from beneath some sort of rectangular ventilation tunnel, and you get on your knees, reaching under it to grab the metallic object. Pressing a small switch on its side, your suspicions are confirmed as the head of a USB drive pops out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Good. Great. Now you can get the hell off of this roof.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Needless to say, it’s a bit late to show up to work today. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . .</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When you return to the apartment, around 7pm, you throw your head back and sigh loudly. It’s very, very good to be home, and you’d even go so far as to call Jason a sight for sore eyes. You give him a wide, tired grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello. Can I say, ‘honey, I’m home’?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You just did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are clear signs that Jason has eaten some of the food you put out, and you’re grateful for that, at least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Long day at work, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you get up while I was gone?” Your tone would mean serious business, if there wasn’t a telltale blanket of exhaustion weighing it down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you actually gonna believe me if I say no?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I might’ve, if you didn’t ask that first. I’m too tired to smack you, but just pretend that I did. What do you want for dinner?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He purses his lips. “...Why don’t we get a pizza?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You frown. “That’s not healthy. You need healthy foods right now, Jason.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like cupcakes?” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“That </span>
  </em>
  <span>was a treat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve still got the money I gave you, so just use that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hmm. “That’s weird. If I didn’t know any better, I would say that you’re trying to make me take it easy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m trying to get pizza, actually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately, you’re considering it. You give him a long, conflicted stare, and then sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What kind do you want?” You’re failing your own stubborn nature.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever you like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you stop being pleasant? I’m getting it for you, so you choose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs, like he literally couldn’t care less. “Just cheese, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You ponder that. “No, actually, I’ll get a veggie pizza or something like that. If you’re gonna eat a grease-bomb, it’s gonna be a grease-bomb covered in vegetables.” He gives you a look, like, why did you even ask? “Yeah, I know, shut up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You already have just the place in mind, and they deliver, so you quickly put in the order. It’s just a few blocks down, so the delivery should come pretty quick--you’ll have just enough time, you think, to take a nice, hot shower and change into something more comfortable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A knock at the door comes just as you’re toweling off, so you curse, rushing to pull your clothes onto your still uncomfortably damp body and stumble out of the bathroom, just to find Jason about half a second away from fully rising to his feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” you nearly shout at him with a scolding point of your finger as you half-jog over to the door. You hear him plop back down just as you rustle through your bag to find Jason’s money clip and answer the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” you greet with a smile that couldn’t possibly be more clearly forced. Too tired for pleasantries, you take the pizza from the delivery girl’s hands in exchange for a hundred dollar bill, which she looks at in shock. Your smile widens, possibly bordering on some sort of halloween mask at this point. “Thanks. Keep the change.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When you close the door behind you, you turn around, pizza box in hand, and lean against the door, sighing heavily towards the ceiling. Then, your head snaps back down and you look at Jason.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stand up like that again and you’ll get what’s coming to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, someone had to get the door.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is my house. You are not a ‘someone’ in this household. Consider yourself an extension of the couch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now we’re at utter dehumanization, huh? This is a new low for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You can’t keep your face straight anymore, so you snort and get to serving the pizza.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fast forward about ten minutes and Jason has once again made room for you beside him on the couch, a triangle of vegetable-grease-bomb in both of your thankful grasps. It really has been a long day. Jason’s pretty quiet as he eats, and you don’t like the quiet, so you decide to exercise your right to force him into a conversation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, uh, what did you do today? Make any progress?” You punctuate the question with a bite.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah. This isn’t a person who’s notoriously easy to find.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you have any clue at all? Like, what part of Gotham they’re in, their job, anything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs, like just the reminder annoys him. “No to all of that. I don’t even know their face.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh?” You cough a few times, nearly having choked on your pizza. “Then how the hell are you supposed to find them? Psychic clairvoyance?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s what the intel was for. It was supposed to give me a head start, a picture. And, in this state, I can’t even see if there’s a word worth getting on the streets. I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You frown, kinda shake your head. “I mean, what you said about them regenerating, I...think I remember kids talking about someone like that when I was in high school--like, an urban legend type thing, muggers would shoot someone dead, only for them to get right back up and attack them--but I can’t remember what they called it. I don’t think that’s very useful for your purposes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not really, no. An ‘urban legend’ is the way I first heard about them too. I just know </span>
  <em>
    <span>now </span>
  </em>
  <span>that they actually exist.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s kinda scary. Are you sure it’s even a person?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pauses for a long time to finish chewing before he speaks. How polite! “Whatever ‘it’ is, I need to find them yesterday.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You sigh. “What have you been doing on my computer, anyway? It has to do with all this, doesn’t it? Just googling?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was...seeing what someone else knew. But it’s about as much as I do, at least for the time being.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, sorry to sound like I don’t have your best financial interests in mind,” you begin, gesturing idly with your half-eaten slice, “but I have to say I’m a lot more concerned with your recovery than with the payout for this whole ordeal. It seems like it’s more trouble than it’s worth, especially considering you nearly died as soon as you took the job.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I still have no idea who those people were, and I find it hard to believe it has anything to do with this. They couldn’t have known that I’d just taken that job, and I can’t see why it’d make them want to kill me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe you just have one of those ‘killable’ faces.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jason freezes just before chomping down and lowers the pizza from his mouth. “...You know, that’s probably it. That would explain a lot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When you’ve both finished your food, you swiftly clean the mess and return to the couch, rocking slightly in your seat and unintentionally avoiding eye-contact with Jason. He stares at you unabashedly the entire time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just say it,” he prompts, and your face snaps towards him like a deer in headlights. “You obviously want to say something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, fine. You clear your throat in preparation, shake your head a little, and force your mouth open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want me to, um…” Oh, just spit it out. The worst he could do is get a little testy with you. “To stay in here with you tonight? I thought I would offer, after…what happened…last night…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You trail off with a lot less confidence in your voice than there was when you started, but to your grand relief, Jason doesn’t seem immediately appalled or offended by the notion. He kinda squints at you like he thinks you’re stupid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh? You have </span>
  <em>
    <span>work </span>
  </em>
  <span>tomorrow,” he reminds you, and you’re taken aback. What, is he your boss? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but I had to at least offer. And I was also thinking…maybe I could take the day off for real. I actually have a decent amount of paid leave saved up, so…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, now he looks a little more accusatory. “If you’re just trying to stick around me out of pity--”</span>
</p><p><span>“I’m</span><em><span> not,”</span></em><span> you assure immediately. “I know you don’t absolutely </span><em><span>need </span></em><span>me here or anything, I just… I </span><em><span>do </span></em><span>wanna make sure you’re okay, but it’s also… Well, come on, how often does something like this happen? An infamous, high profile crime boss who’s fought </span><em><span>Batman </span></em><span>and openly taken on </span><em><span>Roman fucking Sionis</span></em><span> is crashing on my damn couch!</span> <span>I know I’m a nurse and probably shouldn’t be infatuated with someone who kills people, but that’s just fucking </span><em><span>cool</span></em><span>. I wanna keep talking to you before you eventually migrate off of my couch and return to your nefarious bidding.”</span></p><p>
  <span>“I’m not</span>
  <em>
    <span> Dracula.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve</span>
  </em>
  <span> never seen you and him in the same room. By the way, when you’re better enough to leave, are you gonna kill me? Cause I’ve seen your face and stuff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lots of people have seen my face,” he sighs. “You wanna take off work to have a </span>
  <em>
    <span>playdate,</span>
  </em>
  <span> I can’t stop you. It’s not like I have other plans. But you’re sleeping in your bed tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You purse your lips, wondering if you dare say it. “Um, I mean this totally innocently, but if you wanna come--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t even.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, fair,” you relent. It was a risky proposition, anyway. “But, you can’t stop me from staying in here until </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>fall asleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Absolutely immediately, he lets his head fall limp and closes his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop! That’s mean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll heal faster in my sleep,” he mumbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>now </span>
  </em>
  <span>you wanna rest?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He continues pretending to be asleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine, I’ll just watch you sleep until I’m bored enough to go to my room. Possibly draw on your face.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s patient abuse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re an evil bad guy, so it’s fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not an </span>
  <em>
    <span>evil </span>
  </em>
  <span>bad guy, I’m just a bad guy. And I have rights.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, are you my friend?” you ask suddenly, resting your chin on your palm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He raises his head and blinks at you a couple times, catching up to your sudden swerve off topic. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I call you my friend?” you reiterate. “I wanna tell people I’m friends with Red Hood.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once again, the “are you stupid?” look returns. “Sure. Tell as many people as you want, if you want to die horribly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why would I die horribly?” You may or may not know exactly why that would happen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because lots of people want me to die horribly--hence me being here right now--but they can’t usually catch me. So if they hear I apparently have a friend, it’ll be you who dies horribly in my stead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you telling me you have </span>
  <em>
    <span>no </span>
  </em>
  <span>friends?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t exactly seem to be hosting parties yourself.” Is it just you, or was that blatantly defensive?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine, I won’t tell anyone you’re my friend, but you can tell people I’m your friend, so that they don’t find out you have no friends.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You realize that leads to the exact same--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyway, since we’re friends, why don’t you tell me a little more about yourself?” You give him a bright smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinks at you. “What do you wanna know?” Oh, wow, you kinda weren’t expecting him to humor you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where’d you grow up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gotham.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, should’ve known that one probably. “What’s your favorite color?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Red.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it really, though?” You frown, unsure. “‘Cause sometimes, when you surround yourself with a color too much, you start to hate it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t say I’m especially opinionated about colors.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everyone’s opinionated about colors. What’s your least favorite color?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He actually thinks about it. “...Green.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Green? But like, everything everywhere is green. Dude, your eyes are green. Or, wait...” You squint at him, trying to look at his eyes a little closer, but he sort of averts his gaze. “Well, I thought they were green, but...now they look sort of dark. Anyway, um...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He interrupts you as you try to think of another question. “My turn. You dating anyone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jason,” you say, your hand coming to touch your chest in scandal. “Now, why does </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>interest you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just thought it might pose a problem if your significant other pops by unexpectedly and finds out you’ve been letting me sleep on your couch, cooking me meals, nursing my injuries, and doing my laundry for me, and I’m really not in the mood to deal with that sort of drama.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You huff at him. “Well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I’m not, so I guess you’ll be able to sleep peacefully at night. You really think I would invite you to share my </span>
  <em>
    <span>bed </span>
  </em>
  <span>if I was dating someone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe. If you didn’t like them very much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t like </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>very much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That...seems unlikely.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cause it’s a lie. My turn. What was your favorite subject in school?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs. “I...liked all of them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You recoil in disgust. “You liked--what?! No one liked </span>
  <em>
    <span>every </span>
  </em>
  <span>subject. You liked math? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Gym?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“They were all fine,” he maintains. “If I had to pick, maybe...English was my favorite.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You like reading?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pauses, then nods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Should’ve figured that out when you wanted to watch Pride and Prejudice, I guess. That’s nice. I do, too, but I only really think to do it when I’m waiting for my laundry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What have you been reading?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Frankenstein. You remind me of the monster.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, really. Huge, black hair, full of stitches, handsome, left somewhere to die, and probably a lot smarter than you look. You aren’t that scary, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you saying I look </span>
  <em>
    <span>dumb?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I’m saying…” You blink a couple times. “Well, frankly, you look like the large, mean child of a Playgirl model and a quarterback.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Mean?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, sorry, you’re a little mean looking,” you say, making a pinching gesture with your fingers. Might as well let him down easy, before he finds out from someone else. “I think it’s the eyebrows. Bit of a natural bitch face. But it definitely works for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I being complimented or insulted by this conversation?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Both, I think? I lost track. Mostly complimented, probably.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With that, you stand up and stretch, and Jason watches you attentively.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s enough for now,” you sigh. “I won’t deprive you of your absolutely unnecessary beauty sleep. We’ll continue this interview at a later date, when I’m not about to pass out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” he says in his grown man voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re all in the couch, actually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head at you. “You’re not gonna get me into your bed that easily.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes you a second to process, but you snort, then snap your fingers like your dastardly plot has been spoiled. “Damn. Then I hope they bite the fuck out of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m gonna file a complaint at your hospital,” he calls after you as you take your leave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not if I don’t tell you which one I work at, you won’t!” With one last wink, you turn the corner and retreat to your room for the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You have an unread text; an unknown number again, but a completely different one than last time.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[10:13] 6</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>...</span>
  <em>
    <span>O-</span>
  </em>
  <span>kay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Funnily enough, every single inch of your drained and burnt-out body that has been screaming at you to lie the hell down since the moment you walked through your front door has suddenly decided to shut the hell up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You try to brute force your way into unconsciousness, but it just doesn’t work out--all you manage is an hour or so of frustrating tossing and turning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>...It wouldn’t be weird to go see if Jason’s still awake, right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With as much care as you would utilize in navigating a minefield, you tip-toe from your bed to the door, and very, very slowly push it open, careful not to let it creak in that one spot that always goddamn creaks. You listen with as much force of will as you can muster, but you hear absolutely nothing, which helps you not at all, because you’ve learned over the past couple days that Jason doesn’t snore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, if you’re gonna commit to this, you might as well bite the bullet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as you come into view, Jason’s eyes snap right onto your own, and narrow with extravagant suspicion.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Not </span>
  </em>
  <span>checking up on you,” you’re quick to explain, raising your hands up as though that look in his eyes was holding you at gunpoint. “Just can’t sleep. Want some hot cocoa?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Sure.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You don’t want to force Jason to maneuver himself around again, so once you’ve handed him his mug, you settle yourself in the same chair you washed his clothes in, curling your legs up into yourself as well as they could fit. The silent mutual sipping starts to get to you, so you sigh. Like, a Broadway sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I boring you?” Jason asks with quiet amusement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Unfortunately, I left my clown costume back at home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, you didn’t,” you reply flatly. “It’s still drying in my bathroom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That…” He’s speechless for a few seconds. “That was a really good one, actually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s quiet again, and then you notice him shift around in the corner of your eye, which shoots your stare back to him with lightning celerity. He just sat up a little bit more, which you suppose is acceptable, but that weird look in his eye definitely isn’t. You raise an eyebrow at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You...alright?” he asks, sort of awkwardly, and your face scrunches up immediately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You just seem a little off,” he explains.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, well, it’s late, I’m tired, and I can’t sleep,” you summarize wearily. “Sorry if that puts a damper on my sparkling personality.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You narrow your eyes at him a little, and he doesn’t shy away from your pointed stare in the slightest. When the hell did he get so perceptive? Not that you’re interested in talking about your sleep-related woes any more than he is about his own. When you don’t respond for a certain amount of time, Jason shrugs his shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Forget I said anything,” he relents pretty easily. “Not like<em> I’m</em> especially known for talking about my feelings.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jason,” you say suddenly, nearly cutting off the end of his sentence, and he blinks at you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You let him simmer in anticipation for a few seconds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Do you want to play Mortal Kombat?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whatever hesitant expression he was wearing before, it morphs into a tired grin. “Ah, so you want to get your ass beat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You hum. “As a nurse, I would </span>
  <em>
    <span>obviously </span>
  </em>
  <span>never hurt one of my patients,” you insist, setting down your mug and standing slowly from your chair. “But to be quite honest, you’ve given me a lot of frustrations lately that I’d really, really like to beat out on your virtual body. Don’t take it personally, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, you’re kind of scary for a healthcare professional.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you’ve gotta find </span>
  <em>
    <span>some </span>
  </em>
  <span>way to get stubborn patients to listen to you,” you sigh, waving him off a little as you begin to set up the game.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hopefully, after ripping Jason’s pretend spine out of his digital back a few dozen times, you’ll have de-stressed enough to get some actual shuteye.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>contrary to how it may seem given the sudden drop in updates, i actually have the vast majority of this story pre-planned and a ton of scenes actually written already. the end of this chapter, for example, doesn't even reach the halfway point in the document. the hold up comes more from difficultly connecting scenes and integrating plot points than anything lack of existing content, but, honestly, that's the hold up on every story i've ever started</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>if you like this story please consider leaving a comment with your thoughts about it, or anything at all to let me know people actually like this, LOL. it really means a lot to me!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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